


So Long as it Isn't True

by gadgetorious



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-29
Updated: 2012-04-29
Packaged: 2017-11-04 13:21:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/394336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gadgetorious/pseuds/gadgetorious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock rarely gets the important stuff wrong. But then he rarely considers the same things important as everyone else does and there's always something.</p>
            </blockquote>





	So Long as it Isn't True

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a birthday present for [suddenlyswept](http://archiveofourown.org/users/suddenlyswept), who wanted angst or porn or something. Whatever it was she wanted, it's not this, which turned out so fluffy I'm actually very nearly ashamed of myself. I'll try for something less fluffy another time. 
> 
> Title is from a Dorothy Parker quote, "I don't care what is written about me, so long as it isn't true."
> 
> [tocourtdisaster](http://archiveofourown.org/users/tocourtdisaster/pseuds/tocourtdisaster) is my co-pilot. And also my beta.

“Jesus Christ, Mol, that dress.”

Molly’s head jerked up at the sound of his voice and she jumped as her front door closed too loudly behind her.  

“Greg! Hi!”

“Hello. Tell me you’ve still got it in your bag.”

She looked down at the Christmas jumper she’d worn in the morgue—it seemed somehow disrespectful to wear anything strappy and sparkly while tending to dead bodies—and then back up to the very pleasant surprise on her sofa with a shy smile.

“I might have. Yeah. You like it then?”

“Like might be an understatement,” he said, levering himself from the clutches of her man-eating couch to pull her coat off and toss it over a chair.  He wrapped his arms around her, his hands brushing over her shoulders in a way that made her wish she was still wearing the dress with its open back, instead of the thick wool jumper.

“You good?” he asked into her hair. He knew better than to ask if things had gone well. She worked in a morgue; the day things went well would be the day she retired.

She nodded against his chin.

“I didn’t think you’d be here,” she said. “I mean, I know I said, but after I had to go the hospital I thought, well, I thought you’d go home.”

He leaned his upper body back so he could look her in the eye. “I could go. If you want me to.”

“No! I was just surprised. Good surprised. Like a present. Which is fitting, it being Christmas.”

“Well that’s a relief because I had planned to tell you just how much I liked that dress, actually. Now I think I should say hello properly.” He pressed a kiss to her mouth, his lips almost unbearably warm after the chill of the walk to her door.

“You’re not bothered?” asked Molly when he pulled away. Her face was still so close to his that she couldn’t look him in the eye, which suited her just fine at the moment.

“Bothered? No,” He sounded distracted, which might have had something to do with the path he was now kissing up to her ear. “Well, maybe a little. A little hot, too. You might even say—“ he nipped gently at her ear, “I’m a little hot and bothered.”

Normally Molly might have rolled her eyes, even as she suppressed a smile, but they’d fluttered shut just then so she didn’t bother.  Greg did that; said incredibly stupid things just to make her laugh. She loved it rather a lot, really.

“No, I mean by Sherlock. By what he said.”

“What, about the PE teacher?” He’d stopped kissing but she could still feel his breath warm on her neck. “Hardly. I’m sure he’s right. But I haven’t been living there for ages, I just stopped by earlier to pick up my post. Hell if I know how he figured it out but no, I’m not bothered.”

“I meant about me. He thinks—“

“Stop.” Greg pulled back to a tragically respectable distance so he could look her in face again. “Don’t you even worry about what Sherlock thinks. He does it too much for his own good anyway.”  
  
"It's just that I know everyone thinks I still..."

He waited for her trail off before asking “ _Are_ you in love with him?”

“What? No! Of course not!”

“Well then,” he said in his patient, reassuring voice he reserved for explaining things he thinks are perfectly obvious. “I know you’re not in love with him. And you know you’re not in love with him. And frankly I could give a toss what ,Sherlock thinks about the matter.”

He frowned. “Is that why you thought I’d go home? You were worried about what I’d think about what Sherlock said?”

“A bit,” Molly admitted. “It’s just he always says these things and he just _ruins_ things and I didn’t want—I don’t want him to ruin this.”

“He can’t. Sherlock can’t ruin his, Molly. Besides,” he laughed and pulled her back in close,“you didn’t even wrap that damn present.”

 “No,” she muffled her laugh in his shoulder. “I guess that means you’re the one in love with him.”

“Don’t even joke.”

“I don’t know,” she pressed a kiss to his jaw. “You think maybe he was onto something with that bit about unconscious association?”

“If that’s your way of asking me if I was thinking about your lips while I was wrapping your present for Sherlock bloody Holmes then yes. You’ve caught me.” He caught the aforementioned lips with his own. “Was thinking about them on the way to work this morning, too.” A kiss. “And all morning while I slogged through my paperwork.” Another kiss.

“I think I get the idea,” Molly murmured against his mouth. She threaded her fingers through his hair and pulled him in deeper, her tongue moving over his lower lip until his swept out to meet it.

When she finally pulled away his pupils were blown and his hair was a mess. It was a strangely satisfying sight.

“Look at you,” she giggled. “You’re all rumpled. You’re so cute when you’re rumpled.”

“Cute?” Greg demanded in mock outrage. “Cute is it? I’ll have you know I am dead sexy when I am rumpled, and any other way I choose to be.” He rubbed his chin over her cheek and she turned to kiss the trace of stubble there.

“It’s true,” she agreed solemnly. “And modest.”

“You know,” he said with a glower. “I think I might have it bad for Sherlock after all. Don’t forget how careful my wrapping job was. And there was a bow. Can’t forget the bow.”

“Mrs. Hudson’s had a bow! Hers was just on the bottom of the bag.” Another of Greg’s helpful last minute wrapping jobs, she was starting to wish, not for the first time, that Sherlock had pulled that one out instead.

Greg hummed thoughtfully against her throat.

“But what about all the love and care I put into wrapping it, Molly, you can’t just explain these things away.” He held her tight at the waist and pulled the prickly skin of his cheek across her neck until she was squirming and laughing.

“It’s a known fact that you have very nimble fingers.”

“Is that so?”

“Mmhm,” Molly’s lips were pressed tight together in a poor imitation of a serious expression.

“I think you might be onto something. Should probably test that theory though.”

“I can go put on the dress.”

“Don’t bother, I’m just going to take it off you again. And I don’t know if I’ve mentioned how much I like you in this ridiculous jumper.”

Not enough to let her wear it all the way to the bedroom, as it turned out. But he _really_ liked her in her bra.


End file.
